Could one count the grains of sand,
One could hold in one’s hand,
Moist, mingled, multitudes of quartz;
Could one imagine the huge number,
Counting slumber to slumber,
That line just a few little ports;
Could one pretend to know,
Counting row after even row,
The final tally would be so very grand,
The mind would definitely bend,
Before one came near the end,
Of counting the moist, multitudes of sand.
– eab, Apr. ‘78
Separate-Holy 